


Breaking Glass

by SharpestRose



Category: Batman Beyond, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim does what he has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Glass

A year.

A year of "Let's talk about your father, Tim."

And "Why don't we go for a walk around the garden, Tim?"

And "Look at this inkblot and tell me what you see, and keep in mind that I'll make you keep looking at them until you stop saying 'pictures I used to make in nursery school' and start crying or laughing".

A year, before he learned to sleep with his cheek mashed against the pillow so that his screams would be too muffled for Leslie to hear. Before he worked out just how much crying she wanted. Before he found a laugh that didn't make her wince.

But he did it, in the end, and then Tim was allowed to go home.

That's when things got really hard.

  
-

They tried.

They loved him, so they tried.

Alfred made whatever meals Tim wanted, at first, until the combinations of foods became too disgusting to tolerate. Tim had hoped that somebody would get the hint that he was okay, really okay, when he started asking for raspberry jello with anchovies. But nobody said anything.

Barbara asked what he was learning at school, and then smiled and nodded while Tim told her. Dick did the same thing on the phone, about video games and tv shows. "Mmhmm." "Yeah, I hear that's good." "That sounds cool."

After a while, Tim worked out that it didn't matter what he said or did, because they weren't really seeing him or talking to him at all. There was some other kid, some made-up person who they wanted to protect and be nice to and who they cared about.

Bruce hardly said anything to him at all. Tim hated that, but thought he'd hate it more if Bruce looked at him and didn't see.

Tim knew they were trying. He was trying, too. He made sure he always wore long-sleeved shirts and socks, so that the burn scars on his wrists and ankles were out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind. He pretended he didn't hear footsteps disappear behind the clock in the evening. He made a show of ignoring the pictures of Batman in the newspaper.

He loved them, so he tried, and kept telling himself that it wouldn't be like this forever. The right night would come sooner or later, and he could wait for that, couldn't he?

He hated waiting. But he was better at it now than he had been a year ago.

-

When It came, The Night, his one shot, he knew it for certain. The weather was overcast and cold and damp. Some big movie premiere was being held at the big old theatre downtown.

More than enough distractions to keep Batman occupied. Out of Tim's way.

He counted to two thousand, and then two thousand again, before climbing out of bed and sneaking down to the Cave. It had been hard to find opportunities to keep himself in form for stuff like that; he'd had to learn how to take extremely quick showers, doing silent flips back and forth across the tiles in Leslie's tiny little bathroom while the water made the pipes clank and ran down the drain.

The Cave hadn't changed all that much in the time he'd been away. There weren't any new trophies.

The mallet of Harley's - not _that_ one, not the one she'd used when she caught him off-guard. Just a random weapon she'd used once - was just where Tim remembered it. It looked cartoonish and stupid on its pedestal but felt comfortingly real and heavy in his hands.

Tim had never told Bruce exactly how the Joker and Harley had caught him. Bruce might have thrown the mallet out, if Tim had said anything, and Tim knew he'd need it for this.

-

The crack echoes in the silence of the cavern, and he wants to laugh. The heavy wooden hammer connects with the glass of the case again and again.

Tim wants to laugh and laugh, but he doesn't. Sometimes his laugh doesn't sound right, even now, and he hates that. One day he's going to get it back to normal for sure, and then he's going to go and watch a whole damn Jim Carrey marathon. He's gonna laugh until his lungs hurt, and it'll feel wonderful.

He knew there would be a case. He's never seen it before, but it's just like he expected. It feels great to watch the glass shatter, the splinters running all directions like a lightning storm.

There are probably tons of poems in the library upstairs about how wrong it is to keep birds in cages. Maybe Tim should go find one, and write it out, and pin it where the suit was hanging. He should've thought of that before, because there's no time now.

Kicking the last of the glass out of the way, Tim steps up onto the edge of the case's base and lifts the Robin suit off its holder. His hands shake a little, and he curls them into fists. Clutching at the fabric. Red and black and yellow.

Tim balls the costume small as he can get it against his chest.

Then he runs.

-

His arms and legs are longer than they were last time he wore it, obviously, but luckily there was always a couple of inches of overlap under his gauntlets and in his boots.

The cape's too small, and chafes at his neck. Tim rubs at it, and feels a little bump behind the back of his jaw. He scratches at it with a fingernail, and a little black dot comes loose in his palm. Tim makes a face, and hopes it wasn't a tick. Bruce'll never let him get a dog if he can't even keep himself parasite-free.

It's not just that the collar's too tight, really. The cape doesn't feel right. It's a kid's costume, worn by someone who isn't real anymore.

Some day soon, if everything goes like Tim's praying it will, he might ask Bruce for a redesign. For now, the old cape will do.

The grapple-gun fits into his palm like it never went away.

Tim closes his eyes, and lets himself fly.

-

Robin's been gone long enough that crooks are surprised when he shows up to pound the tar out of them. He doesn't trust himself to laugh, but the smile doesn't leave his face for a solid two hours. The cold, clammy air makes his cheeks go red from windburn as he zips from block to block on the grapple lines, and if he wasn't trying to be stealthy he'd let off a whoop of joy.

For the first time in one year, five months, two weeks, and two days, Tim knows exactly who he is.

-

The Riddler's doing something lame and weird at city hall, and Tim feels sort of guilty that he never thought to keep his bantering skills from going rusty. Riddler looks reproachful and a little hurt that the best Tim can come up with for why a Robin is like a writing desk is "because they both hurt like hell when they hit your head at a hundred miles an hour."

To make up for it, Tim buys a book of word jumbles from a newsstand and shoves it into Nygma's hands as he's taken into custody.

Tim wants to hang around and ask the police if there's anything big going on that he should know about, but since the mayor was one of the Riddler's hostages there's more than a good chance that the Commissioner's going to arrive before much longer. Tim can do without that particular confrontation tonight.

"Hey, kid!" One of the cops calls as he turns to go.

"Yeah?"

"We thought you quit this game." The way he says it, there's an unspoken _and we're glad that we were wrong_ on the end.

"Me?" Tim asks, grin back on his face. "You kidding?"

-

Batman catches up with him a little after three. There's a couple of guys in an office across the street, and it looks like one is blackmailing the other with an envelope full of photographs. Tim's watching through binoculars from a rooftop, and wishing that he'd bothered to learn lip-reading.

"Go home," Batman says. Tim snorts.

"Where do you think I am right now?"

"This is not a subject for negotiation."

"You're damn right it's not." Tim doesn't look away from the two men. "Is a suitcase full of unmarked hundreds enough circumstantial evidence for an extortion trial, you think?"

"Robin."

Tim's throat feels tight all of a sudden. He blinks hard behind his mask. "Yeah?"

There's no answer. Tim lowers the binoculars and turns. Batman's gone.

-

The chilliness of the night turns warm with the morning, and Tim isn't entirely reluctant to change out of his costume when it's time to catch the train home. It's so hot that he even pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. The scars from the burns look awful on his skin, but Tim doesn't care so much anymore. They're just scars. It's not like it's a big deal.

Gotham early in the day makes Tim think of his life after his dad went missing, before Two-Face and Batman and everything that came later. The bakeries are full of warm new bread, and almost everybody's still asleep, and some of the street lights are still on. Like they haven't quite worked out that it's tomorrow.

All the other kids on the train are on their way to school. Tim smirks. His short career as a dedicated student has come to an end.

His good mood wavers a bit as he gets closer to the Manor, and has turned into something sick and curdled in his stomach by the time he takes the front stairs two at a time.

The door swings open. Tim puts on his best 'I may not be innocent, but I sure am loveable' face. Alfred doesn't look like he's at all impressed by it.

"Once you have had some breakfast, Master Timothy, I would appreciate it if you would sweep up the broken glass you left strewn about last night."

Oh, right. The case. "Um. I'll get right on it?"

"Very good, sir. Master Bruce has asked to see you in his study."

"Oh, _hell_."

"He has also asked that I tell you to watch your language." Alfred's mouth twitches, as if he wants to smile but is doing his best to refrain.

Tim gives him a long look. "You knew. When I went down to the Cave last night."

"It has been a long time, sir, since the day when anything happened under this roof without my knowledge."

Tim shakes his head, and walks towards Bruce's study.

"Master Timothy?"

Tim turns. "Yeah?"

"Anchovies with jello? Whatever possessed you to dream up such a concoction?"

Tim shrugs. "Guess Leslie didn't get all the crazy outta me, after all."

Alfred looks a little taken aback, and Tim feels guilty. "Still too soon for jokes, right?"

"Perhaps it would be better to refrain from such quips with Master Bruce, for the time being."

Tim nods, and moves to push his sleeves back down over his wrists. Then he pauses, and shakes his head, and leaves his forearms bare. "I'm tired of pretending nothing happened."

Alfred nods. "Very good, sir."

-

The door to the study is open. Tim knocks his knuckles against the frame. "Bruce?"

Bruce looks up, then stands. "Tim."

"Alfred said you wanted to see me." Tim grits his teeth and steels himself for an argument. "I'm not telling you where I hid the suit. And you can't watch me every second of the day. I'm gonna go out again no matter what."

Bruce almost smiles as he comes over to stand in front of Tim. Tim can't remember the last time he saw a really happy expression on Bruce's face.

Maybe Tim'll take him along when it's time for that Jim Carrey marathon.

"I'm surprised the suit still fits," Bruce says. "You've grown up so much."

"It doesn't, not really. And I need a new cape. Something more like yours, I think," Tim answers, and takes a deep breath. "Don't make me fight you on this, Bruce. I need things to be like they were."

Bruce looks at Tim's wrists. "They'll never be like they were." He sounds like it breaks his heart to say the words.

Tim looks at the burns, too. "Okay," he says after a minute. "Not like they were. But not as different as everybody thinks. It was bad... but it wasn't the end of the world." He looks up, and knows his eyes are glittering. "I won't let it be."

Bruce rests a hand on Tim's shoulder. "All right."

"Really?"

Bruce's eyes are as overbright as Tim's. "Yes."

Tim grins.


End file.
